Percy
by frontyardgnome
Summary: BA hates puppets, Murdock seems to grow them like trees. The million dollar question is why the fool can't leave off with the damn things.


There was a limit to things a man could tolerate in the pre-milk time of the morning. Face talking about his conquests was not one of them, and neither was Hannibal's cigars, though god knows the only reason the man started in before 7am was because he'd been up all night and hadn't noticed the fact that, yes, the sun did go down and came back up so he should too. He swore the man was as bad as Murdock when it came to bouts of monthly insomnia. He had no doubt in his mind the two probably timed it so they both had their time-of-the-months together, plotting and giggling over planes and plans like teenagers. It would explain a lot.

But of all the things in the morning that he did not want to see, number one (or close to it) on his list was his sock staring at him over the island, googly eyes glued on and red mouth conveniently drawn on in what he was sure was permanent marker. "Ah, here's the big guy himself. Say mornin', Bosco!"

Sure enough, a chorus of various child-like voices answered, "Morning, Bosco!"

Followed right by that sock asking, "Are you going to join us for the Breakfast Special, BA?"

He forgot he had put in toast for the moment as his brain tried to process exactly how his sock had gotten out of the drawer, out his door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. And made what looked like a breakfast out that came right off a box of sugared cereal, half a grapefruit and all. "Uh..."

God he needed milk.

"Whatcha makin' there, big guy?" the puppet asked him, leaning closer and revealing a suspiciously hairy arm.

He eyed the thing. "What you doin', fool?" It couldn't be good. Nothing good came from another insomniac night.

"We're learning about breakfast this morning! Since it's morning and all." He groaned and willed the toaster to go faster. "So whatchya havin'?"

The puppet was suddenly closer, Murdock attempting to blend into the floor as the puppet 'moved'. He sent a glare, catching himself just in time to send the look toward the pilot and not the sock. "Quit it, Murdock, I ain't in the mood for your crazy this morning."

Apparently crazy was on the menu however.

He would never understand this man, he really wouldn't, no matter what Hannibal said. What kind of grown-ass fool played with puppets? Then again, this was Murdock, owner of every god damn t-shirt from the kid's section at Target and collector of Happy Meal toys.

"Oh, look, you're havin' toast! That's today's word, Bosco! Toast. T-O-A-S-T. Toast. Did you know that toast is made of necessary organic compounds called carbohydrates? Carbohydrates help us have energy to get up and move. Can you say carbohydra-hey!" Murdock pouted up at him as he yanked the man's socked hand up and over the counter. "Commercial break, commercial break!"

"What you doin' with my sock, fool?" There really wasn't enough incentive in the world to ask why, mostly because he knew he wasn't going to like the answer. Particularly if the Breakfast Special was anything like Masterpiece Theater from last night. He really hated Face for cutting the cable. Public access channels only carried one cartoon instead of the multitudes for Murdock to choose from and imitate. At least the Transformers phase had been amusing to think about.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Murdock asked, giving him a look as if a grown man in boxer shorts and the same shirt from last night, squatting on the floor with a sock on his hand and bags under his eyes was supposed to immediately inspire some kind of recognizable state of mind that wasn't 'crazy'. Fortunately a scowl got the answer out. "Now now, Bosco, We're just educating you all on what a healthy breakfast is! It's the most important meal of the day, you know - it kick-starts the brain and helps reduce over-eating at later meal times, resulting in a trim figure and energy to get out there and be Army strong!"

"Fool, I _am_Army strong. It's you that ain't got enough meat on your bones." Which was true, though he couldn't exactly blame the man. Years of institutional living would do that to you, and his hand had always been able to fit around other people's wrists as easily as it was now. It made dangling people over really tall, dangerously long drops a lot easier.

Murdock just gave him a solemn nod. "All the more reason Mr. Loom here is enlightening us all."

He groaned, because oh god, now it had a name which meant it was there to stay. "Mr. Loom?" He knew he was going to regret asking.

"Fruit of the Loom was too long for the business card."

Yup, regretting. He reached for the sock, strangely feeling for the poor thing having to endure idiocy forced onto it. A thought he quickly squashed and blamed Murdock for, because inanimate objects definitely did not have feelings. "Nu-uh, you ain't usin' my sock for your PBS morning special."

The pilot squirmed as BA attempted to wrestle the sock away, hand flailing and managing to keep just out of reach. "Mr. Loom is a very important special guest on today's show!" Turning the puppet's head away, Murdock leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, we already gave him his advance."

"You ain't givin' him anything cause he's a sock, man!" It was too early for this. He managed to get a hold of his sock and yank it off despite Murdock's loud protests. He shook the poor abused article of clothing as he eyed the pilot. "Leave my stuff alone, crazy, you hear me? And just eat your breakfast like a normal human being."

"Now how am I supposed to know what a healthy, nutritious breakfast is without the guidance of the very experienced and qualified Mr. Loom? How is anyone?" Murdock was giving him those damn puppy dog eyes that had already managed to get Face to cave to the pilot's delusions. But not him. No siree, there was no way in hell he was falling for it.

He glanced at the array on the counter. "Seems like you're doin' just fine on your own, so eat your food, fool." He wasn't going to ask why it looked like there was soda in the cereal.

"Can I sing the breakfast song at least?"

"_No_." Feeling the headache coming, he swung open the fridge door and groped for the milk. He frowned when his hand came up empty.

"We're out of milk," informed Murdock, now sitting at the kitchen table, mysterious bowl of cereal in hand and looking all the more like a hunched, brooding bird with his feet up like that. "Which you would have known if _someone_had listened to the-"

He glared at the pilot and suddenly Murdock was fascinated with his cereal, chanting something under his fool breath that sounded a lot like the grocery list in song format. It took most of his will power not to crumple the orange juice box and chuck it at the pilot's head. "There was a half gallon last night, man."

Murdock shrugged at that and gave him one of those wide-eyed looks that was supposed to be innocent but he knew better. Particularly since last time he saw that look it resulted in the Great Pasta Incident. He was still pulling dry macaroni out of his pockets. "Mr. Loom used it to make muffins last night."

At least there were muffins.

"He ate all of them though."

It was then that he realized the sock was damp and a cursory sniff of it revealed the charming odor of spoiling milk. Coupled with no baked goodness, it brought forth a, "Murdock!"

Murdock just gave him a smile. "Mr. Loom says your toast is burning."

That was how, when Hannibal and Face came tripping down the stairs from their respective rooms, they found the kitchen filled with smoke and a protesting fire alarm, barely audible due to the sound of roaring and shrieking from the front yard.

It was also the start of a string of puppet obsession in the pilot.

If he'd known that beating Murdock over the head with the milk-soaked Mr. Loom would begin a rash string of missing socks amongst them all, he would have left well enough alone and forgone breakfast all together. Face usually had some fruity, Slim Fast things hidden away that they all knew about and helped themselves to liberally (but more so just to make fun of his non-existent love handles and sixty-year-old-lady ass that he was convinced he had).

But since a time machine was still not invented and Hannibal had already warned him off of killing Murdock due to something called homicide, he was stuck with learning the hard way about the depths of obsession Murdock swam.

It took him four pairs of socks to figure out that Murdock would not end with Mr. Loom, Sergeant Achilles, Mr. Long Foot, and other personalities that had him scraping googly eyes and hot glue off of cotton fibers and not even bothering to explain to Face or Hannibal why half of his socks were pink. Turned out permanent marker did bleed off in the wash, no matter how much bleach you tried to use.

Locking his door, however, only increased the rash of missing footwear.

"That better not be mine," he growled as a sock peered at him from behind a tire.

"And here we have the Barackian one, Homo Baracus, in his natural environment, engaging in a well-known past time of the species we call mechanical tinkering." He was fairly certain it was one of Hannibal's socks, paper hat, wire glasses, and all. He did have to hand it to Murdock – the puppets were getting more impressive, if not ruining more socks in the process.

"What have I told you about botherin' me in the garage, fool?" Hopefully just that would get Murdock to shut up and leave him be to spend one of his last nights with his baby before he had to leaver her for sand, sand, and more sand. He wasn't going to hold his breath, though.

"Care must be taken when observing this rare species as they are known to have mercurial mood swings from exasperated irritation to volatile God of War." Which really wasn't a promise of leaving, especially as he heard clothing scrunching together as a pair of legs folded Indian style by a tire.

He sighed. All he wanted to do was work on the car before he put her in storage. He owed it to her to get ready for a long wait. "Murdock, I'm busy. Go play Planet Earth somewhere else."

He'd never admit to enjoying the Serengeti portion of that weekend movie marathon. Particularly the crocodile eating the annoying zebra. It had it coming.

The British accent wasn't going anywhere, however, and neither was the puppet as it slithered further in. "If we're quiet we may get to see the daily mating ritual of the Barackian one, where you'll witness-"

He rolled out and grabbed Murdock's collar before the pilot could scamper away. It didn't surprise him at all that the Southerner had a pair of Face's fashion frames on his own face and an explorer's hat that was found from god knows where. "Only ritual you're goin' to see is my fist-in-face one if you don't get out!"

Murdock gave him a very impressive pout, free hand clutching at his wrist. "Now BA, someone's gotta document your life! Don't know when we'll be back in your natural habitat again."

"They've got garages overseas," he snorted, loosening his grip a bit in response to the pilot's hand. There was another layer to that last statement however that had him watching those brown eyes, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Ain't like we're never goin' to be back here, crazy."

There was a twitch at that and the puppet was suddenly in his face. "Migratory patterns for Homo Baracus are fairly predictable and predicate an increase in the escalation of aggressive behaviors. This makes the Baracus a beautiful but deadly addition to any environment, and an endangered member of the familial ecosystem."

There was a lot there that he didn't even want to wade through, but he got the general gist of it. "We aren't goin' to die, man. Come on, you think another tour's really gonna do any of us in?"

Murdock gave a non-committal shrug, but before he could even think about what the hell that look meant the man was giving him a smile. "Life amongst the Barackian tribe is fraught with peril, and clan members often face tribulations that threaten the very cerebral integrity of individual members."

He blinked, not entirely sure how to respond to that. Particularly as the puppet was now starting a running commentary on the significance of gold necklaces and alpha male status. There was something simmering under the surface of those flailing limbs, but he had never been a particularly emphatic person to begin with. His level of mind reading extended to when dinner was and when other people were thinking about pulling a gun or some other funny business. Definitely not 'what is Murdock thinking today' levels of psychic-ness here.

There was no hint on Murdock's face to help him out, however, so he let it go and instead spent the next five minutes denying that there was any kind of dominating/submitting relationship between him and the van (it was totally equal, and not like that, and damn it why was he arguing this?) and chasing Murdock away from his baby and out of the garage.

That weekend they deployed, and the puppets disappeared for a few days as they battled jet lag, convinced new generals that Murdock was sane and he was clean, and settled into life at their new Iraqi out post. It didn't take them long to hunker down and for Face to pull the necessary strings for their own bunk and own command tent. That being said, however, it also didn't take long for the attention to start coming as well, particularly at the crackerjack, crackpot, crack commando of a pilot on Hannibal Smith's team.

It was their first night around the fire, still waiting on the grill to come in, when the puppets first appeared again.

Murdock and Face came back with the beer and he knew something had gone on even before seeing the hunched gait of their resident crazy man solely. Face's furrowed brow was the tip off and they all knew the man didn't purposely put that deep of lines on his face unless something was up.

Hannibal noticed as well, pausing in blowing smoke rings to ask, "Everything all right, Lieutenant?"

To their surprise, Face glanced at Murdock, who shrugged, before answering. "Just some trouble with some fucking grunts who don't know shit." At his frown Face added quickly, "No offense."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever, man." It was all good, particularly since he was still fairly certain he could beat the con man's ass if need be. His biceps had more man points in sheer size alone.

"Everything all right, Captain?" He followed Hannibal's gaze to Murdock, who was falling with a thump into the fabric lawn chair set up.

"Aw, it wasn't nothin', Colonel." Murdock's voice was muffled as the pilot was leaning over, tying a shoe, frown still playing on his lips. "Small town, small minds. We'll prove 'em wrong soon enough."

Hannibal glanced at Face who gave a subtle nod to Murdock – and yeah, he wasn't surprised rumors had already spread about the Captain. It wasn't easy to hide regular psychiatric evaluations from the rest of the base when there were only two here and all the way on the other side of the compound. Too many eyes between here and there. Too many old stories, too.

The Colonel carefully tapped off the ashes and clapped a strong hand on Murdock's shoulder. "That's right, Captain."

A knowing look passed between the two, a smile of thanks perhaps, one that he could only catch the tail end of before a socked right hand appeared. God damn it, he sighed, because the man hadn't been tying his shoe but taking it off.

"Of course it is, Colonel, cause you always know the _right_impression to make!"

He leaned over to Face and tore a beer off the rings. "Someone gotta be right in the head, cause you sure ain't, crazy fool."

Face laughed though he caught the look the con man threw at the pilot as the newly born 'Righty' continued to make bad puns and generally up the annoyance level of the party. He followed that blue-eyed gaze and frowned a little to himself, sitting further back in his own straining chair. Murdock caught his eye and gave him a wink that he didn't quite understand. But the pilot's shoulders were no longer hunched and when they turned in for the night the man was in decidedly better spirits.

So he forgot about it, as he tended to do when he was being shot at, shooting at things, pitying fools, and generally proving that he had a patch for bad-assery, even if it said 'Ranger' and not 'Bad Ass'.

The next time he thought about Murdock and his weird obsession with puppets, the grill had come and Murdock was humming the William Tell Overture in the Great Steak Race (Hannibal was winning, even if the man didn't know it) even as he hissed at the heat. Apparently the grill had not come with mitts for it, but that was all right. They were inventive, and Face had been more than happy to lend a shirt to the cause. Even if it was only after a hole was burnt into it.

Fixing up his temporary baby, a bike that had been beautiful at one point in time, he realized after a minute or two that the William Tell Overture he was hearing was only in his head. The humming had stopped and he found himself glancing over the bike seat in slight concern. Because seriously, he was hungry, and if some fool of a private was messing with the cook, there would be hell to pay.

There was no private though. Just Murdock, the steaks, and flames licking at just dispensed flammable fluid of some type. Blue-green eyes were fixed on the orange flickers of heat, hand with the spatula hovering over Face's losing slab of meat.

Normally he'd ignore it and go right back to his bike, but there was something there this time that he could see. Perhaps it was because the pilot was so still, or maybe because he was finally looking straight on, but there was a haunted, drawn look in those eyes and in the arch of that slightly parted mouth. The spatula was moving, no, trembling quite unconsciously, and he could see that exposed wrist moving closer and closer to the metal of the grill.

"Hey!" He was too late to stop the inevitable pull of gravity however, and a loud hissed informed him even as he stood that the fool had gone and burned his fool self, doing fool things like not thinking.

"'m ok, 'm ok," Murdock waved him off, spatula now on the ground. "It's not too bad."

He frowned, halting his advance, irritation bubbling when concern was waved away. "Fool, what were you doin', going off like that?"

He nodded at the pilot's hand, frowning as the pilot bent down to retrieve the sand covered spatula. It was a grin that met him though as Murdock popped back up, that lopsided, distracting fool of a grin that had Generals scratching their head. "Just testing for optimal heat, BA. Can't have ya getting tapeworms, now can I? Those Apaches don't come with in flight bathrooms you know."

He groaned – not the image he wanted or needed. "Jesus, man, that ain't right."

"Hence why proper heat levels are important," nodded Murdock. Steaks flipped and the Overture was back, along with - "Ain't that right, chef?"

The free hand with Face's shirt was suddenly forming a mouth and he found his mind couldn't keep up as The Chef answered, bad French accent and all, "Oui oui, my apprentice! The right application of _la_ _flamme_will ensure that we have a steak that will make you weep for such a vision of heaven once more."

Time to check out.

Shaking his head, he let Murdock argue with himself over the exact qualities that qualified steak for heaven over chicken. But even as he moved to refocus on his work, he spared another glance toward Murdock. Arguing or not, once he had witnessed it, he could see the furtive looks the pilot gave to the flames, like a man hunted.

"Hey," he heard himself say.

The argument stopped abruptly and it was both Murdock and The Chef that looked at him. Only Murdock spoke, however. "What up, muchacho?"

"You ok?" He gave the pilot a long stare, conveying that he didn't mean the burn or The Chef or the meat.

Murdock, to his surprise, just gave a crooked smile that had less to do with that happy-go-lucky fool smile and more to do with that haunted look from earlier. "A mind is a terrible thing to lose."

He would be lying if he said he knew where that was from. By the waggle of Murdock's eyebrows accompanying it, he'd say a movie. But which one he had no idea, and he didn't have anything to say to that except, "What do you mean lose? You already lost yours long time ago, man."

"Five years, eleven months, and thirty-two days ago," Murdock whistled cheerily. Gunpowder was poured on a steak and flipped, ensuring a small explosion. "Meat's done!"

It left no room for him to comment on that last revelation, and he wasn't one to bring up the subject again as Face and Hannibal magically appeared at the beckoning smell of deliciously dead cow. He rubbed a hand over his face to wipe off the sweat and grease and filed away that tidbit in his mind for later. Right now, there was steak to claim.

Think he did, however, later that night as he digested protein and listened to the soft sounds of three different men whiffling in their sleep.

Five years, almost six, put Murdock pre-Hannibal era, and pre-Mexico as well. A time he didn't know a lot about except that a Saudi royal helicopter had been involved, as well as some very impressive aerial stunts and cannibal hillbillies. There had been other hints from that era of the pilot's life as well, however, ones that he hadn't heard from his three most reliable sources but had heard from everyone else. The Event, The Crash, whatever you wanted to call it – proper nouns and all – that had sent the Army's best pilot (debatable) into the Army's best hospital (less debatable, mostly because it was a blatant lie).

His frown deepened. This wasn't his thing, stringing together abstract hints with abstract events. Face was good at seeing connections, Hannibal just seemed to absorb them and understand instantly. But he was left trying to figure out what Murdock losing his mind and a grill in the middle of Iraq had in common. It felt like some sick riddle, and it frustrated him to the point that it kept him up all fucking night.

Which was why, that next morning, he grabbed Murdock by the shoulder outside their tent, then glanced around for intruding ears before asking, "Hey, about yesterday…"

Murdock's eyes brightened. "Awww, didn't know you cared, BA!" He found himself in a tight hug. "Wrist's just fine. Moving like a finely tuned articulated chopper, baby."

He cringed at the use of that term (and at the fact the pilot would think he didn't care, because really?) and hoped to God no one had heard. "Ain't what I'm talkin' about." Pushing the pilot back to a proper, non-space invading length away, he left his hand on the pilot's shoulder to keep the man's attention. "Why'd you say that?"

It was Murdock's turn to be confused. "Say what? I say a lot of things."

That was true, but off the point. "That thing." Ok, this was a little (lot) harder than he thought it would be, if Murdock's look was anything to go by. This was now passed awkward and into weird in less than three seconds, which meant time to bail. "You sure you're all right?"

Murdock tilted his head a bit at him as if BA were suddenly sprouting two heads and singing kumbaya. "BA Baracus, if I didn't know better I'd say that was genuine, 100% grade-A caring right there about my mental state of being." A lean wrist found its way to his forehead. "You sure your meat wasn't tainted?

Right, conspiracy theory in hand, like any important point Murdock made. "Fool, I'm just makin' sure you're ok to fly tomorrow. Don't want you takin' us off somewhere because your fool mind ain't concentrating!" He brushed off the wrist and noted the taken a-back blink of hurt that flickered through blue-green eyes.

But instead of a frown the pilot shook his shaggy hair and gave him a soft smile, patting his cheek. "Don't you worry ol' Bosco. You're flyin' with the best."

If he didn't know better, there wasn't the same amount of vigor and surety in that.

He didn't comment further however, already feeling much like the out of place ostrich among flamingos and more than ready to stick his head in the sand and forget the whole affair.

So he did, and so did Murdock, or so he thought until they landed after that mission, chopper banged up but in one piece which he thought was something the government should be thanking them for. Even if he didn't remember how the wheels were blown off during take-off, or even how or where most of those bullet holes came from. Damn drugs, damn drugging, and damn everyone because now he had to play dumb and shake off the leftover woozy feeling while Hannibal explained to the air strip exactly why their BlackHawk should probably be retired for a little while.

He would later blame it on the drugs for not realizing when they had company, though in truth he had been too preoccupied with unloading supplies with Face, plotting three individual deaths, and trying not to stumble on legs that definitely did _not_(maybe a little) feel like Jello. He was aware about ten seconds later, however, because suddenly two men were sniffing contemptuously at Murdock in the pilot's seat, post-flight checklist being marked off.

It was hard to miss the nasally voice of the taller, reedy man. "You're Captain Murdock, aren't you?"

That tone never implied anything good and he knew Face was paying attention as well now. He didn't move to help, however, shaking his head at a glance from Face. He'd let the pilot fight his own battles. He'd seen the man do just fine, and besides, nothing to get a brother angry than feeling like they needed protection, no matter how much you thought otherwise.

Murdock just looked up, giving a wide, lopsided smile. "That's my name, don't wear it out, unless you're going to call me in for dinner. Then yell away, dear sir."

It was the 'dear' that had the reedy man – a Captain apparently according to the bars on his shirt – staring, leaving the second man, dark haired and square faced, to chime in. "Shit, you bring home anything alive this time?"

The comment had a direct effect on Murdock. Smile fading and eyes narrowing in one smooth motion, the words out of the man's mouth were low and heavily accented. "What was that, Corporal?"

He stopped all together now, putting his box of ammo down because Murdock rarely pulled rank. Most everyone who knew the man knew this.

Face was already moving, clearing his throat, so he followed figuring it was as good a time as any to get involved. Especially considering that slow, twisted smile appearing on Murdock's face. Crazy's crazy was leaking through, and it didn't particularly bode to be the people-friendly kind.

"As a matter of fact, he did," announced Face smoothly, stepping into view and giving a dazzling grin that stood out from the sand and dirt streaking his tanned face even darker.

He grunted his agreement, folding his arms and letting that talk for him. His muscles were usually enough to inspire silence and this time was no exception. The Corporal saluted and the Captain knew a losing battle when he saw one. Three of Hannibal Smith's men vs. anyone was not exactly a recipe for promotion or an incident-free day, after all.

"See you next week, Captain," said the reedy man rather flatly, and the two men were off across the airstrip to the supply tent.

He watched them go for a moment before turning to look at Murdock. Face was by the man's side, unsure whether to touch him or not as their Captain watched the other two go. But when blue-green eyes turned back to look at them both there was a smile on the pilot's face. A twitchy, nervous twinge to those shoulders, but a smile nonetheless.

"Pleasant folk," drawled Murdock, hands creasing and uncreasing a corner of the flight check list one second, picking at a cuticle the next.

"Did you know them?" asked Face, never hesitant to bring up bad history unless it was his own

"Naw, but think my name's preceded me." Murdock threw one more look at the disappearing idiots, chewing on a nail, before turning back. Quite suddenly, the nervous energy was gone and replaced with the laminated post-ride check list folded over and talking, loudly, in a hideously exaggerated Southern drawl. "Down here, a man's gotta get his name out if he wants to be the stuff of legends."

He rolled his eyes and immediately headed for the boxes. Woozy or not, manual labor was preferable to idiocy of any kind. He did glance at Murdock out of the corner of his eye as he passed, however, and watched as Face tried to push the issue.

"Do you want me to…?"

"If we've got a problem with 'em we'll just challenge them to a quick draw, high noon, upper basketball courts. One bullet only, defend our honor, save the small town of Murdockia from the menial and imbecilic dredges that make up them there outlaws."

Yeah, good luck with that, because the further the con man pushed the further the puppet would come to life. He'd seen it happen with almost every other puppet person that had appeared and-

An epiphany hit.

The sort of sudden realization that had him almost dropping the box of unused weapons (Hannibal would be so disappointed). What if those damned fool puppets were some sort of stupid, stupid attempt to displace anxiety? Perhaps he'd been reading too much into Murdock's anti-psychiatry rants of late, or maybe he was just tired, but it seemed to make some sort of logic. Even if that logic was the scary, Murdockian kind of logic that really shouldn't be making sense anytime before 5pm and before at least three beers.

Shit, he'd kill the fool if he was turning into him.

Either way, for a brief moment, he felt like he understood, kind of. Like how he went to his bike and Face to women and Hannibal to cigars. And for an even briefer moment he envied the pilot for having chosen something that could take someone so far away. Only for a moment, though, because he had things to unload, a shower to catch, and three people to beat on because he was still angry about being drugged and not caught, again, this time around.

It was the kind of epiphany, however, that stayed with him through the next week, and while he could never prove anything – puppets came and went during obvious high stress and during lulls – he always suspected the reason behind the arrival of Socky, Lefty, and the memorable Colonel Gold-Toe.

Which was why, standing at the PX, waiting for a transfer back to their outpost and looking for new socks after his last pair appeared back in his drawer with newly burnt holes (courtesy of Grill Master Murdock no doubt) he paused across the aisle from It.

It was staring at him with two wide eyes and a way too large mouth. In a lot of ways it was perfect, which was why he almost left it alone and walked passed. But his mind flicked back to the hot grill and those nervous fingers and the way that loud, irritating voice had only managed to twist into something even more obnoxious and, in a way, sad.

He would never admit to buying it out right, no. The story would always be that it 'appeared' in his bag and 'what the hell is this' and 'I'm tossin' this unless you're goin' to make me steak, fool', a request Murdock was more than happy to comply with if only the pig would stay, puuuuh-lease! And of course he relented, because it's steak with some weird bullshit sauce on it that only Face was stupid enough to eat, and everyone knows BA Baracus can't say no to a good home-cooked meal. Even if it is out in the deserts of god-forsaken nowhere.

But only BA would know why that surprised smile on Murdock's face meant so much when he stopped the man's newly appointed serving pig with one hand to ask, "Thing ain't got a name, crazy?"

And only he would know he didn't really (maybe just a little, but not completely) mean it when he rolled his eyes as Percy the Pig was brought into the world.

***  
>FINI<p> 


End file.
